Experimentation

With a bit more time to work with, I tried the binder out again on Saturday. With your notes, I lifted a bit, and also moved the girls to the sides, and it helped.

In a dress shirt, it’s definitely still a bit of a drop-off. Less so than before, but definitely more noticeable than in a t-shirt.

It’s hard to say what a properly fitting t-shirt would look like, as the more masculine ones I own are too big for me. Out of a combination of needing room for the boobs, wanting something bigger because I’d rather my more masculine shirts not be showing off my curves, and having lost a bit of weight (and, okay, perhaps a bit of stretching in there), they’re not precisely small.

Which is usually okay, because I’m not, either.

But wearing one out with the binder… it was like a TENT. It was ridiculously large.

So, I’d be interested to see what it looks like with a smaller shirt.

Meanwhile, I wore it for 6 hours, and it was totally comfortable (minus the time when I didn’t pull it back down properly after using the bathroom, and it rolled up and the edge dug into my flab. but that was easily rectified). This adds to my wondering about whether I wouldn’t be able to pull off a size smaller, given how squishy I am. Not that I’m going there any time soon. But – yes, it was a bit tricky to get on, but not difficult, and not at all uncomfortable. Which, given comments I’ve seen from other people, made me wonder.

.

Comfortable though it may have been, somewhere between hours 2 (when the movie I was attending was supposed to start) and 5 (when the movie I was attending let out and I was able to look at myself again), my breasts did the thing that they always do if there isn’t a brick wall separating them, and became a unified front, giving me a strange pointy lump at the front of my chest.

I’m not quite sure what to do about that – obviously when not in a theatre, I’d have more of an opportunity to use the restroom and re-adjust, but on the flip side, I probably wouldn’t want to be constantly going and re-adjusting.

Maybe I can make a foam something or other to stick between them, to try and avoid any wandering?

Surely I can’t be the only person with this issue. Off to look up more binding tips…

Advertisements

First attempt at binding

(With something other than a super tight sports bra, that is.)

I finally sucked it up and ordered a binder last week. We had a little bit of wiggle room in the budget, and I wanted to see if it would help.

I’ve only worn it once now, mind, so we’ll see. I’m glad I got it, but I think I’m going to have to look at pics of larger bio men to see if I can better arrange all my different bits.

It’s certainly the right size, and does a good job of flattening everything down to equal sizes. The problem seems to be that, when your breasts come 9-10″ out from your chest wall, there’s only so much that compression will do.

So, yes, I was able to put on and button a dress shirt I normally can’t, and from the front, it looked pretty decent.

But from the side, I’m not sure. Don’t get me wrong, I’m well aware of the concept of “moobs,” and that if I were a bio man, I’d have them. But this doesn’t look like that. I feel like it still looks distinctly feminine. It’s sort of like… I’ve got a diagonal shelf coming out from my neck? Hard to explain. So I took pictures.

Taking a deep breath and hitting post before I can chicken out. Pics behind the cut, because though I’m (obviously) covered in each, they’re definitely revealing.

Any advice on positioning/clothing/layering?

Continue reading

Cue Panic

The wife and I are going to a wedding later this month. Long, long ago, when we started thinking about it in more concrete terms than “hey! wedding!” I got rather annoyed. I didn’t have any dress or skirt/top combo that both a)fit and b)was appropriate for a wedding, and I sure as hell didn’t want to spend money on one that I wasn’t going to wear again.

I jokingly put out there that I should get a jacket and wear a jacket and tie instead.

And wife, being wonderful wife, said, “yes! you should!”

.

And here we are, far closer to the event, and I have a jacket, a tie, a nice short-sleeved dress shirt, and dress pants. I even picked up a billfold like I’ve been wanting for ages, so I won’t look like an ass, trying to find a place for my driver’s license and debit card.

I am quite confident that I look good in the top, tie and jacket.

And yet, I am panicking.

.

The parents of the bride are family members who were not so nice when the wife and I got married, and then dropped off the face of the earth, as far as contact with us went. The one has started to make amends over the last year and a half or so, but it’s still rather tenuous ground, and I am equal parts hoping and worrying that they’ll have a literal stroke in the middle of the venue.

My mother is rather immune to my eclectic style (so to say) at this point (and, at Christmas, said only to me, “are those men’s shoes?” “yes.” “ah, okay. I didn’t think you wore a 7…”), but has never seen me fully decked out in suit-wear. I haven’t mentioned to her that I’m doing this. I’m not sure why. Perhaps she’ll be fine with it. Perhaps she’ll think it’s utterly ridiculous and roll her eyes. Honestly, it’s about a 50/50 chance either way.  But, much as I know she loves me no matter what, it’s still hard when I know she thinks I’m being ridiculous, when it’s something that’s not ridiculous to me.

The one person who DOES know is the Bride, and she hasn’t said anything negative about it, so I suppose that’s all that matters. I did threaten to wear sneakers with the suit (converse one stars – I’m not a heathen), and may still do that, channeling my inner David Tennant. But I’m not sure I’m quite young and hip enough to pull it off in a room full of 20-something hipster musicians, and my family.

.

I am confident that I’ll look good.

I am confident that I’ll feel good.

Now I just need to get over the fear of other people’s opinions.

In which I angst, completely unproductively

I have two unfinished posts hanging out, posts with intelligent and interesting writing, waiting to be finished and posted.

Instead, you get whining, and perhaps some talk of my own self-defeatest bad habits.

Last night, the wife linked to this picture with text (clicking on it will take you to the original post):

both

My first reaction: falling completely in love with the set and the text.

My second reaction: utter jealousy

My third reaction: sadness

I’ve said before in conversations with my wife and friends that I don’t mind my body, despite it not being my mental image of myself. And that’s true, I guess. I mean, I think it is. It’s mostly true, anyway.

But what is also true is that I purposefully try to ignore it. When I was a child, I had dreams that I was controlling it from within my head. That it wasn’t me, per se, but something that belonged to me.

I don’t take very good care of it, though.

I treat it like I do things in my life that I’d rather forget about. I ignore it until something goes wrong, and then try to ignore that until I can’t anymore, which is usually past the point at which I can do something about it.

If there’s something I could improve, that would improve my body or health or self-image, but wouldn’t quite get it to where I want it, then I tend to ignore that as well.

I’m very good at all-or-none. I preach moderation, I PERFER moderation. But when it comes to my body and my health, unless something will get it all the way done, it’s nigh on impossible for me to convince myself it’s worth doing at all.

Exercise can’t get me down to my* ideal weight/size/shape? Fuck it.

I’ve injured myself/got arthritis/whatever, and can’t do my preferred exercise? Fuck it, why exercise?

I’m not exercising? Fuck it, why eat healthy?

.

Suffice to say, it doesn’t get me very far.

So, I see a picture like this, and my first reaction is elation. But it is quickly followed by, “why am I bothering with any of this shit?” Because my gut tells me that, if I can’t get to a place where I COULD realistically pass either way, then why should I bother appeasing the voices in my head that tell me that’s who I am?

(ETA: I’ve also had a disturbing realization this week that part of why I don’t fight against my big belly more is that – in my fucked up head – it makes my boobs look smaller. Add in that my breasts don’t get smaller when I lose weight – they essentially get bigger, since the rest of me gets smaller – and I’ve got yet again an issue where the fact that I can’t go all in means that what I’m doing is actually actively working against me.)

.

I’ve been falling into a place lately where I’ve reverted back to as I was as a child. Where don’t just take joy in wearing the more masculine clothes, but also fight against the more feminine ones. Why do I do that? I don’t hate how I look when I’m wearing them. My body is mine, and that is me, and I can look good in a skirt or a dress, even if it’s not my preferred look.

As a child, I fought against them because I was told I had to wear them. If I wanted to be a girl, I had to. Well, then, fine, I wouldn’t.

Nobody’s telling me anything this time, though – nobody but myself. And it’s almost as if I’m saying, if I want to be a boy, I can’t wear anything feminine. But that’s not any more true than what I was told as a child.

What it is – I *think* – is that I’m feeling stuck. Again because of my size, and the size of my breasts. When I wear “boy” clothes, I am still obviously a girl. I am a girl, wearing boy clothes. And when I wear girl clothes, I’m just plain a girl.

And this is frustrating me to no end.

.

In my ideal world, on one day I’d be able to go out dressed as a girl, and read as a girl. And on another day, I’d go out dressed as a guy, and read as a guy.

But in this body, that won’t ever happen.

And apparently I’m feeling a little fucking bitter about that today.

.

.

*MY ideal, not society’s